Sometimes naming a horse has unforeseen repercussions. Much like Cyberdyne Systems' 'Skynet' network in Terminator II, if the animal/robot in question becomes 'self-aware', so to speak, they might just try and do justice to their calling... This very scenario came to bear but two weeks ago at Cessnock, when a three-year-old filly named Miss Outlaw decided that if she were to be deemed a brigand in name, then why not a brigand be? For this precocious young rogue, it was the temptation of being e
Sometimes naming a horse has unforeseen repercussions. Much like Cyberdyne Systems' 'Skynet' network in Terminator II, if the animal/robot in question becomes 'self-aware', so to speak, they might just try and do justice to their calling...
This very scenario came to bear but two weeks ago at Cessnock, when a three-year-old filly named Miss Outlaw decided that if she were to be deemed a brigand in name, then why not a brigand be? For this precocious young rogue, it was the temptation of being entrusted as the caretaker of a shiny race-day saddle that finally unlocked the bushranger within...
On the dam's side, Miss Outlaw's pedigree goes back to a stallion by the name of Francis Bacon - himself fittingly enough titled, as Thatcher's "man who paints those dreadful pictures" was the son of a racehorse trainer. Unlike Bacon the man, however, who preferred to drift through his early years reading Nietzsche, eating, drinking and attracting the company and wallets of wealthy gentlemen, this filly cares not for the 'bon vivant' lifestyle; those acerbic and hungry tongues of smoky Soho clubs. No, judging by her performance at Cessnock, it appears that Miss Outlaw favours the condition of the 'colt from Old Regret': the stinging slap of twig turned switch, reckless wind in untamed mane, that headiest thrill of rider-less saddle.
Parading in the yard before a 900m maiden, this daughter of Home On The Grange clearly didn't like the look of jockey Grant Buckley - or perhaps the whip in his hand - and made her audacious bid for freedom just as the hoop was about to be legged-up. Displaying devastating speed that would surely have left her rivals gasping had she chosen to race, Miss Outlaw sprinted two laps of the course before its circular monotony impelled her to seek more invigorating terrain, and she disappeared into adjacent bushland still brandishing her leather loot. A manic hour-long cross-country pursuit ensued - with trainer Mick Dwyer and the clerk of the course brandishing the proverbial pitchforks at the head of the chase in a ute - before Miss Outlaw took her last stand and was captured at Pelton, a staggering 9km from the racetrack. Though to date she has been kept to sprinting trips in her short ten start career - including three runs at the helter-skelter 900m - I'm sure Dwyer might now be tempted to test Miss Outlaw over more ground next campaign...
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